War Zone
by Scare4irony
Summary: AU-ish. Previously titled:It Has Nothing To Do With Luck It's Just Reality. Sam is under attack and no amount of rock salt, spells or holy water can get him out of this one. No matter how hard Dean tries. Complete as it's based on real life I don't know how to end it.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I published this way before as "It has nothing to do with luck - it's just reality" as a way to cope with this thing that had suddenly turned my family's world upside down. I wrote another two chapters to the story but shelved it until now. Three one-shots at most with no clear timeline. I will delete the original posting and include it later so it reads sequentially.

* * *

**WAR ZONE**

Sam knows something isn't right when the room tilts slightly to the left and Jess becomes nothing more than a blurry figure dancing in and out of his vision. He shakes his head but the world begins to spin and he feels his body pitch forward...

Jess hovers over him. "Sam, honey can you hear me?!" The body cradled in her arms moves and moans in pain. "Sam, c'mon," she whispers.

Vision clearing, Sam comes to noticing how high above him the kitchen table is. He sits up, putting a hand to his head and turns to Jess who hugs him tightly and tries to move him to the couch.

"Jess...i-it's okay. I'm fine." He's deposited on the couch and Jess sits on the coffee table.

"You fainted," she states. "You haven't been eating properly. I've told you Sam. You should know better. Honestly? Sleep wouldn't kill you either!"

Sam blinks. Of course I've been eating properly, he thinks. He's eaten a little less than usual but he's not really hungry these days and he seems to last fine skipping a few meals here or there. Sleep? That one's new, he sleeps a lot. More than he likes to admit. It sounds stupid, he realises but really he's fine...

...until he collapses at the end of a class. The professor calls for an ambulance when he notices dark bruising on Sam's forearms and the pallid colour of his cheeks. His eyes have sunken into his sockets and the only reason he's allowed it to get this far is that Jess isn't there -she's visiting family - to force him into bed, demanding that he eat or lose his coffee for the week.

He comes to in the ambulance where he's asked a series of questions just like Jess has asked him in the past. He answers truthfully because now he's scared.

"Would you like me to call anyone for you?" the paramedic offers.

_Dean._ "Uh, my girlfriend Jessica," he manages.

Test after test plots his journey through different wards and different doctors.

It makes him feel like a shitty little pin cushion.

When Jess finally gets to him all he hears is 'thank God you're alright' over and over again until he just wants to sleep. Unconsciousness is almost in his grasp when he feels a hand on his shoulder. "Sam, doc's here."

He sits patiently watching the man in front spiel about his tests - he's halfway in through the process of tuning out when a word pulls him back into the clutches of the medical world and he wants to laugh. He really does because it's impossible, it's impossible..._him_, Mr Eat-right, act-right, exercise-fanatic cannot be sick. He wants to laugh because laughing is better than the alternatives: crying, yelling, silence - they aren't viable options because he isn't _sick_.

He cannot have-

"Sam did you hear me?" The doctor puts the chart on the bed and looks at Jess. "Sam, I understand it's a lot to take in at the moment..."

Sam grinds his jaw. _I want Dean! Shit, where is he? Dean...Dean, I want Dean_. "Get out."

The doctor looks flustered for a moment.

"Sam." Jess is looking at him, panic evident behind her eyes. "Listen to him-"

"No. I want you out." He's trying not to cry...trying not to sound like his life is going down the fucking drain, but he can't deny it. Not when he's in a hospital bed. Not when Jess looks at him like that. Not when a doctor wants to talk to him about surgeries and chemotherapy and radiation...PET scans, CT scans, injections, dyes.

"Sam-" Jess cries, "Listen, I know you're hurting..." She's clutching his hand, lips on the crown of his head.

He shrugs her off, pointedly looking at the doctor. "Out."

The doctor nods, eyes sympathetic, taking the clipboard and checking Sam's vitals. Once he's out of the door Jess follows, no doubt asking what she can do to help; leaving Sam in the cold empty room.

Everything is going to waste. Law school, studying. Leaving his dad...Dean. Nights of tossing and turning in dingy dorm rooms wondering if he did the right thing - crying out in his sleep for a family that could've been anywhere. Wondering if it's not too late to call Dean. Knowing that he'd leave the job again as soon as he got sick of watching Dean getting flung through the air like a lifeless rag doll. He could be dead in months – hell, weeks even.

Sam curls in on himself, facing the window. He wants to call Dean. He wants to feel his brother's arms around him, the steady thumping of Dean's heart beating in his chest. He wants to hear that it'll be okay.

Sam's not going to call though.

He's 'staying gone'. His father's words, not his - but this time he's worried

Staying gone could be permanent.


	2. Chapter 2

**WAR ZONE - CHAPTER 2**

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose as hard as he can because he can't look at him. He won't look at his brother, who still hovers in the door with his bag on the floor and his fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt.

There are a few million things Dean knows he wants to scream, shout, god forbid, actually cry at his little brother...but for the life of him he can't remember any of them. Not one bloody thing. The anger won't go away though. It sits in the pit of his stomach, bubbling steadily. He's so livid that the volcano in his mind is all ready to explode.

But it won't. Not yet. Not fucking yet.

"Dean." The words are soft, hesitant. "Dean, please, don't be angry."

_Shit_, he thinks.

"Angry!" Sam jolts at the tone. "I am so fucking past angry!" He turns his head, steps towards his brother and fists his hands in the taller man's shirt. "You could've called. You could've left a bloody note. Hell, if you didn't wanna tell me, least you could've done was let Bobby know!" Sam stares, as if he's fascinated with the veins that seemingly throb in his forehead. "You bastard! Do you know how hard I've had to look for you?" He loosens the grip on Sam's shirt slightly."_Why_ did you go?"

Sam's eyes widen almost comically. His eyes dart down as soon as the word 'why' appears in his brother's deafening rage. He won't say. Not when things are actually good between them. Not when Dean is genuinely happy. No, he's not going to say a god damn thing.

"Tell me."

Sam feels his head connect with the door while his arms splay out to the sides of his body. He feels the cold stuffy motel air worm it's way around his now revealed torso and arms but he can't move. He imagines Dean's eyes raking over his body cataloguing the new array of bruises that were never there before and have no reason to be . He breathes in and out, while his mind repeats the mantra: _Dear God please don't let Dean see-_

His hope is shattered with a single broken whisper. "Sam?"

When he opens his eyes he finds that Dean has let him go - which is good...but Dean's found something on the floor that rolls around in a spindly little circle before resting again his bag - oh. Bad. Bad! BAD! He watches as Dean stalks towards the little orange bottle and crouches near it. Just staring. His eyes are wide and Sam's sure that he's assessing the threat - he can almost hear the questions: Drugs? Sam, what's going on? You're scaring me.' But it's not what Dean think. It won't even be close.

He feels Sam behind him, tension rolling off his body and crashing onto him. Sam. Sam. Sammy. Shit. His hand darts out and snatches the offending object that has captured his attention. He hears Sam behind him, the desperate plea of 'I'm begging you Dean. Give me the meds.' He's sure he can hear Sam's teeth click shut and the slap of hands against his mouth. He wants to laugh at Sam's expression, at how 'hand-stuck-in-the-cookie-jar' his face is but he won't because: "I need...air."

_Samuel Winchester_

_Imatinib Mesylate_

_100Mg_

_Clinical trial - contact your doctor for more details._

Dean stares at his brothers sticken face. _Screw air. I need a laptop._

?_?

Sam bites his thumbnail.

He runs his fingers through his hair over and over and over again.

He paces the room - hears the quiet taping of keys and ragged breathing.

It takes all his self control not to pull out his gun and shoot the wall - he settles for screaming into the pillow.

This is bad. It's wrong. It's been nearly two hours since Dean bolted with the laptop into the bathroom. His well kept secret is no longer secret. All because he thought disappearing for a week would be more efficient than confessing the truth. Hell, he thinks. If he told the truth he wouldn't even be here. He would be tucked up in a bed permanently. Dean, working from nine to five, smelling of Old Spice instead of blood and gunpowder. Dean bringing home groceries and DVD's instead of take-out and extra large bags of salt.

He hears water hitting white enamel. Taps on at full blast. It's drowning out something. What? He's not sure but he curls himself into a ball and tucks the pillow under his chin.

The door inches open. Dean removes his boots and scrubs a hand over his face. Sammy. He steps towards his brother's bed and curses as the floor board creaks.

In an instant Sam sits up and rushes from the bed putting a little bit of distance between them. "Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "Shut up." Hurt passes over Sam's features. It's nothing compared to what's going through his mind. They've been stuck together twenty-four/seven and not once did he notice and fit the pieces together. Not once did he see the changes. _What the hell is the matter with me._ Random blood noses. Ear splitting headaches. Continuous bleeding, bruising, sweating. The lack of appetite. The lack of sleep.

Fuck both the job and the demon blood - they were just masks upon the ugly truth.

"Why...why couldn't you tell me? After everything, why didn't you come to me?" He flings himself at his brother and grabs him into a tight hug. To hell with chick-flick moments. Tears begin streaking down his face and he feels Sam sniffle into the crook of his neck.

"God, Dean," Sam cries. "I'm so sorry for everything."

_Everything._ The tone is clear and he can't believe Sam. He blinks at the apology shaking the thinner man slightly. "Sammy, don't you dare be sorry," he whispers harshly. "Do you understand? Don't you dare apologise for being sick." He sighs fiddling with Sam's shaggy brown hair. _It's gonna fall out. _"I just wish you told me."

They sit side by side on the floor and for the next few hours Sam spells out the last few years. He tells of his first fainting spell and his first trip to hospital. He never mentions wanting to call Dean.

And like the brother he is Dean sits and listens patiently. He nudges Sam's shoulder when his voice trails off into nothingness as he thinks about the curve ball in his life. He asks questions when he wants clarity and through it all he reaffirms that Sam has nothing to be sorry about. In the end he gets it. He understands that Sam didn't want him to change his life. He pats Sam's knee and slings an arm around his shoulder noting the lack of meat on his bones. He also knows that Sam was protecting him, trying to do the right thing by everyone.

Sam's sleeping on his shoulder. He feels his brother's hair tickling his cheek and the cool breath on his neck.

Dean saves people. He has to save people. But, if anyone's gonna be saved..._God help me_, he he thinks, it's gonna be Sammy.


	3. Chapter 3

**WAR ZONE - CHAPTER 3**

Dean enters the room silently willing to not wake up his younger brother. He takes off his boots and slips off his jacket, placing it on the rickety old chair while he watches Sam sleep. His little brother's chest rises up and down, but he's harder to see as his body slowly deteriorated in mass.

It isn't until he's standing at the foot of the bed that he notices the brown tufts dashed around Sam's head located under the covers.

"Oh God," Dean whispers. He hates himself for doing this. He wants Sam to be peaceful, happy...not hurting, but what Dean is about to do is far from that. He moves to Sam's side and rubs the younger man's shoulder gently. "Sam? Sammy, I need you to wake up for me."

Groans of "De'n, get lost 'n lemme sleep" are heard from under the covers as Sam turns to his side.

More forceful now Dean almost growls, "Sam, get up."

Shifting occurs in the bed before Sam head pops up. His hair is in disarray...well, most of what is left anyways. Blinking eyes look to Dean questioningly and by the look he receives his back becomes straighter and his voice goes on edge. "Dean, what's the matter?"

Dean doesn't know how to explain it as Sam shifts his hands and feels something that shouldn't be there. Before Dean can stop him he looks down bewildered at first before realization dawn on him. His eyes widen, striking hazel slowly being dulled, tears are swimming behind his lids barely being held back.

"Sam, I'm...so sorry..." Dean trails off looking at his brother helplessly.

Sam looks down around the bed and sees more of them, more shaggy locks around the bed. He knew this was going to happen, he had mentally prepared himself for it...but now...he's not so sure he can handle it. Sam doesn't want to show that he's afraid. If he does then Dean will be afraid as well and that's just something that can't happen but it does as Sam lets a sob escape his lips and Dean's green eyes betray his calm demeanour.

"I...it's...it's my..." Sam is unable to finish the sentence. Instead his fear turns to anger; furiously he begins to run his hands through his remaining hair like a comb. Tears stream down his face in frustration and confusion. It's not going away! Why can I still see my hair on the bed? It's not supposed to be like this! More tufts come out and continue to float to the ground while Dean can only watch in shock.

"Shit," whispers Dean, he finally snaps out of his trance and pull Sam's thin body into a hug. "Shh, Sam calm down." Sobs begin to wrack his own body and together they cry. To Dean, this has become all too often in the past few months. After they had found a diagnosis, he had slept in Sam's bed because he'd fallen asleep with Sam's tears soaking into

his shirt. Sam's weakening body led to more frustrations and Dean continued to hold him as he cried and cursed at the universe.

What seems like hours pass until one of them speaks.

"Winchester luck, isn't it Dean?" Sam asks from Dean's chest. Dean chuckles and pulls Sam out of the hug so that he can see his brother's face. He's stopped crying, his nose, eyes and cheeks are red. And he looks so different now. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean's been through this a lot of times with Sam as well in the past few months, "I've told you already Sam, nothing to be sorry about."

Sam looks down, now pale. He's clearly exhausted. He wipes his tear stained face and smiles a small smile. "I don't know whether I'm getting better or worse to be honest," he admits. Dean's heart twists in his chest and he plays with the buttons on his shirt. "Um...Dean?"

Quickly abandoning the buttons, he looks up at Sam. "What Sammy?"

Nervously, Sam motions to the duffle. "Can you grab me a beanie?"

"You know it's okay, right?" Dean says, making no move towards the bag. "You don't have to."

Sam nods and puts his arms around his knees. "I know, it's just gonna take me a while to get use to."

Stiffly, Dean gets up and searches for a beanie. He throws it at Sam, who looks at it and sighs before placing it onto his head. Dean searches for a distraction within their motel room and spots the TV. "C'mon, let's watch something."

Sam reluctantly gets out of the bed and winces as his feet touch the hair on the ground. He wills himself not to cry and manages to hold back the tears and whimpers that lie waiting in the back of his throat. He settles himself on the couch and switches on the TV. He knows what Dean's doing.

Dean surveys the bed and floor. Bending down slowly he begins to pick up the tufts of hair. Somehow using a broom just seems heartless to him as he fingers the brown mess that stains his hands. Won't have to rag on Sam to get a haircut now, he thinks wryly. He closes his fist and squeezes his eyes shut, letting a few tears escape. This Sammy's hair!

Concern floats to Sam as he waits for Dean to join him on the couch. "Dean, you coming?"

"Yeah...Sammy, in…" Sam winces and Dean shakes his head as his voice cracks and comes out higher than he meant to, "…a minute." He manages to get the rest of the hair, debating on whether to keep it or throw it away. He's gonna be fine, he...just has to be fine...but Sam isn't fine, he's fighting a disease with no mercy and Dean can't do anything to make sure that his brother comes out of this fight alive. Dean closes his eyes and leans against the edge of the bed.

"Dean, I don't have forever!" Sam calls out. He bites his tongue as he realizes what he just thought and hugs the pillow closer to his chest in sadness.

Dean knows that Sam's looked to the future, he's weighed the possibilities and he knows Sam's fighting for him. Dean swallows thickly and puts the hair in the bin.


End file.
